


Ticklish

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fetish, Ficlet, Foot Fetish, M/M, Tickling, Tumblr Prompt, dubiously consensual tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 13:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17767484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: In the ongoing saga of Sherlock's big gorgeous feet, John tickles them.





	Ticklish

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by a tumblrista asking, "How can John walk by Sherlock's bare toes without tickling him?"

He wants to every time. But only when he knows they’ve the time, and won’t be interrupted (well,  _probably_  won’t be, but that’s another story for another day), and certainly on those occasions when Sherlock has just had his hands and feet attended to--his vanity benefits them both--and most  _definitely_  when Sherlock’s had coloured polish applied to just his pinkie toes. . 

John drags two fingertips the wrong way through the faint drift of soft, reddish hairs along the tendon from Sherlock’s big toe to his ankle, and Sherlock’s lips curl into a soft, small smile--proof he is not asleep despite the suggestion of the book pages-down and open across his chest--and there comes a tiny whiff of exhaled breath through his nostrils, one of John’s favourites of his laughs, because it is so tiny, and so fleeting.

He grabs one long foot in the claw of each of his hands and drags half-tight from heels to toes, thumbs sweeping softly against Sherlock’s high arches, encouraging a dancer’s point, finishes with a flutter of fingertips brush-tapping over the pads of Sherlock’s eloquent, articulate toes. Sherlock’s lips part and there is a half-yelp from his mid-throat as he reflexively withdraws from John’s touch.  _You can’t make Sherlock do anything_ , but John can make him yip like a pup, then offer back his vulnerable flesh, giving silent permission for John to make him do it again.

John’s fingers dig in to the half-space between, making his toes curl tight around them, and a quick strumming motion sends Sherlock into spasm, pulling into himself to protect his belly, and sometimes he reaches for John’s wrists, half-shouting in an unrestrained, high voice for him to _stop that! stop!_ But he’s smiling, half-helpless, and only needs a moment to catch his breath. He could walk away, refuse, and sometimes he does, and that’s fine, but usually he stays. It’s a kindness, and a kind of bravery. John could have him utterly helpless in a matter of seconds, and they both know it. It’s a matter of trust. Lovely man.

A solid grip on his ankle is required to really have a good go at his big, gorgeous foot, and sometimes John pins Sherlock’s other foot beneath his own thigh or even his bottom, to keep him from kicking. John’s fingers scrabble and feather and swirl over the rough-soft surface of his sole, and Sherlock thrashes, all grabbing hands and flexing torso, lost in his laughter, gasping protests, giggling, gorgeous, his smiling mouth sometimes bending backward into a kind of agony, then back again to unguarded pleasure. John tickles him breathless, stops so Sherlock collapses, goes back at it so he goes taut once more, every muscle and tendon protesting. There’s that high, defenseless burble of a laugh, and then the sobs, and John stops just long enough for Sherlock to soften, then starts again.

Sherlock hates it. By the time John is through with him his belly aches and there are tears down the sides of his nose; his face is pink and he is sweaty and exhausted. John is rampant, giddy with lust, high on the sound of Sherlock’s voice, the feel of his skin, the vision of his beautiful, naked feet with their long toes and that flush of shiny sky blue there at the perfect little corners.  _Worn out, are you? Just lie there, darling, and I’ll take care of the rest._


End file.
